the pulsing groan of the dial tone works its way through my mind. and if i watch enough tv, maybe i’ll still be there to see the world vanish softly, and melt into my tired insides.
go away. go away. go away. just leave me alone in my fucking garbage dump of a brain. because i’m not a person anymore. i’m just a diagnosis, or a label, or something like that. and if this illness defines me, then does that mean i need to be sick to be happy?
does that mean no one really loves me? does that mean i can’t even trust one fucking word you’ve told me? or is this all just my mind, messing with me?
just make it all stop, okay? i’m not ready yet. i’m not ready for any of this. i’m not ready for time to exist, and i’m sorry.
but i don’t think i can do this.
I wrote the original draft of this poem really late at night, and I’m not sure what it’s about, but it’s definitely a pretty good picture of the weird mental state I’ve been in of late.